


Zerachiel

by Aethelflaed



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Cat, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Bookshop Cat, Canon Compliant, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cat, Cute Animal, Fluff, Gen, Just Add Kittens, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pet Adoption, Referenced Period-Typical Animal Abuse, Regency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:15:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24198823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed
Summary: London, 1804A.Z. Fell's has a new employee: A small white cat, the official Rat Catcher.But Aziraphale has never interacted with a kitten before, and soon finds it's a great deal more trouble than he's bargained for.--EEEOOOOW! Another kick, several straining pulls, and Zerachiel was in his lap, butting his head against Aziraphale’s elbows. The kitten spun around, fluffy tail stiff behind him, and stretched his front paws towards the table above.“No. Absolutely not!” Aziraphale slid the plate further away. “There will be no free handouts. If you want to eat, you need to find rodents and feed yourself.”With another claw-tipped leap, Zerachiel fumbled onto the table and began sniffing at Aziraphale’s dinner. His hands grasped for the tiny creature, but he simply slipped away like a weasel, and began trying to bite through the skin of the goose with sharp white teeth.
Comments: 54
Kudos: 130





	Zerachiel

**Author's Note:**

> As requested by my Tumblr followers...
> 
> Zerachiel is about six weeks old at the beginning. He is a Turkish Angora, though likely not purebred.
> 
> CW for brief mentions of period-typical treatment of animals (which would be considered abusive today), as well as a bit of ableism (again, directed at a cat, and period-typical). See end notes for explanation.
> 
> Zerachiel (God's Command) is the name of the Angel of the Sun, and sometimes associated with the constellation Leo.

Crowley stared at the tiny ball of white fluff on the bookshop carpet. It stared back, two blue eyes under comically large pink ears, perked up and focused on him.

“Angel,” he finally managed. “You seem to have some sort of infestation.” He tried to step around it, but the fluff leaned as if to block him, one paw waving briefly, claws extended.

“Ah, I see you’ve met my new employee,” a voice echoed from somewhere on the shop’s second floor. “I just picked him up this morning. Please do try to get along.”

“Emp – _what?”_ Crowley scowled at the little creature, which licked its lips and continued staring. Sure enough, there was a ribbon around the thing’s neck in that tartan pattern the angel had been obsessed with since just before opening the shop. “Aziraphale. This isn’t an employee, this is – this is a health hazard, that’s what it is.”

“Nonsense.” Aziraphale leaned over the railing and looked down, his own white curls backlit by the lightwell above, like an echo of a halo. “All the bookshops and libraries have them, you know.”

“Well, none of the other bookshops are owned by _an angel._ Or frequented by demons, either, you can’t have a _cat_ around here.”

It wasn’t that Crowley hated cats, so much as they hated him. Humans believed that cats could sense supernatural presences, occult powers, otherworldly beings – and they weren’t far wrong. After six thousand years, Crowley hadn’t the least desire to be hissed at by some pretentious fuzzball every time he came round to visit. He couldn’t _imagine_ what Aziraphale was thinking.

“Well, I might need to soon. There’s talk of requiring it, you know, to help control the rats.”

“What did rats ever do to you?” The unwavering blue glare still held Crowley. Neither he nor the kitten had moved since spotting each other.

“My dear fellow, they carry the plague!”

“No they don’t. That’s slander.”

“Fine, their fleas bring the plague. And they chew on paper and make nests and – oh, I don’t even want to think about it.” Aziraphale disappeared briefly, and his feet clattered down the metal stairs. “No, I will not have them in my shop.”

“And you won’t. You’re an angel. You can just…miracle them out.”

Aziraphale reached the bottom of the steps and crossed the shop floor, feet almost impossibly light on the soft carpets. “And have the only rat-free shop in London with no explanation as to why? People will ask questions!”

“Just like they ask how you’ve kept this shop open for three and a half years without selling a single book?” In spite of himself, Crowley almost smiled. For some reason, Aziraphale had been enjoying the strange game of pretending to be a human shopkeeper. Every month he had some new (usually ludicrous) new idea to help him "maintain the façade." Crowley didn't understand it, but he had no interest in trying to take away anything that gave Aziraphale such obvious pleasure.

Aziraphale stood behind the kitten, and they both watched it for a moment. It's bright blue eyes were still fixed on Crowley, head slightly tilted, body tense. Apart from the occasional paw-wave, it hadn't moved.

“Are you sure it…you know…works?”

“Oh, he’s still young. Er. In training, as it were. But he was lively enough at the Martins’ home.”

“Who?”

“Josiah Martin. He frequents the same bakery as me. His daughter’s cat had a litter and told me to come by as soon as they were weaned.” Aziraphale nudged the kitten with the toe of his shoe.

The reaction was instantaneous. It spun around, face nearly splitting in half, eyes scrunched shut – _EEEEOOOOW!_

“Bless it,” Crowley snapped, stumbling back a few steps. “That thing is loud!” The yowling squeak was too big for the tiny white creature.

“Yes, I suppose –”

 _EEEOOOW!_ The kitten slapped at Aziraphale’s shoe with one paw. _EEEOW!_

“Well, at least it will scare the customers away,” Crowley grumbled, crossing his arms.

Aziraphale tugged at his waistcoat and leaned down. “Now, Zerachiel, you’re going to need to learn –”

 _EEEEEOOOOOW!_ A paw slashed towards his face, and Aziraphale recoiled from the sudden attack.

“Zerachiel?” Crowley scoffed. “What sort of name is that for a cat?”

“A perfectly acceptable, angelic name.” He pointed a finger at it. “And you, my good fellow, will –”

One tiny paw reached up and swatted at the finger, needle claws extended.

“Stop! Stop that at once!”

The second paw came up, both batting and grasping. Apparently, the kitten was trying to pull the finger down to its gaping, yowling mouth. When Aziraphale tried to pull away, the creature clung, lifting several inches off the ground before losing its grip and falling on its back. The cat twisted around and reached again with both paws, catching a claw on Aziraphale’s trouser leg. _EEEEOOOOOW!_

“Crowley!” He called helplessly, trying to pull away as the demon backed towards the door. “Crowley, I am being attacked! Do something.”

“Sorry, Angel,” he said, trying to keep the laugh out of his voice. “I think you’re on your own here.”

\--

That night, Aziraphale settled down for a dinner of roast goose and apple stuffing, with sides of potatoes and vegetables. It had taken several very compelling letters to convince Gabriel that he would need to consume at least two meals every day in order to maintain the human façade, and to get approval to miracle that food into existence (so that he didn’t have to rely on his own limited cooking skills). He still preferred to eat real food as often as possible – the taste was incomparable – but for now at least, eating _regularly_ was a new and rather unexpected delight.

A delight which, until this night, had been enjoyed in peaceful silence.

 _EEEEOOOOW!_ Zerachiel tumbled about on the floor, engaging in an assault on Aziraphale’s legs that had already lasted several uninterrupted minutes. _EEEEEOOOW!_

“Now, my good fellow, enough of that. I would really prefer a moment of privacy. Can’t you entertain yourself?”

 _EEEEOOOW!_ With a rather improbable leap, the tiny kitten launched itself towards Aziraphale’s lap. Two paws landed squarely on his thigh and latched on with tearing claws, while the back legs kicked and twisted. _EEEEOW!_

“Ow! Oh, do leave me alone! Stop!”

 _EEEOOOOW!_ Another kick, several straining pulls, and Zerachiel was in his lap, butting his head against Aziraphale’s elbows. The kitten spun around, fluffy tail stiff behind him, and stretched his front paws towards the table above.

“No. Absolutely not!” Aziraphale slid the plate further away. “There will be no free handouts. If you want to eat, you need to find rodents and feed yourself.”

With another claw-tipped leap, Zerachiel fumbled onto the table and began sniffing at Aziraphale’s dinner. His hands grasped for the tiny creature, but he simply slipped away like a weasel, and began trying to bite through the skin of the goose with sharp white teeth.

Groaning in despair, Aziraphale finally managed to scoop him up. “I told you, no!” The cat squeaked another impossibly loud meow. “No. You were brought in this shop for a – a job – a _role_ and you must –”

_EEEEOOOOOOOW!_

He carried the kitten back into the main shop and set it in the middle of the floor. “This is your domain. And the storage room. The cellar. The attic! Any place but _on my table.”_

_EEEOOOOW!_

Aziraphale walked back to the kitchen as quickly as he could. Thankfully, Zerachiel did not continue screaming. With a sigh, he resumed his seat and began cutting into the goose, taking a deep breath of the rich, fragrant scent.

This really would have to be the way of it, he decided. A firm hand to make the disobedient kitten fall in line. They were supposed to be intelligent creatures. Surely he would quickly learn that his place was…

A claw plucked at Aziraphale’s trouser leg again.

_EEEEEOOOOW?_

He pushed the kitten aside with his foot, but Zerachiel simply grabbed on with both paws, attempting to climb atop his toes. _EEEEEOOOOOW!_

“Get off, get _off!”_ He shook his foot hard enough to dislodge the cat, but Zerachiel simply shook himself so hard he nearly fell over, then returned to scratching at Aziraphale’s leg. _EEEEOOOOOW?_

“If I give you a bite, will you let me eat in peace?” Aziraphale asked, defeated. He didn’t know what response he expected, but it seemed Zerachiel was preparing himself for another needle-tipped leap. “Here. Here!” Aziraphale held out a small piece of goose.

The pink nose, tiny but still some how too big for the face, sniffed delicately at the meat. He opened his mouth and tugged it out of Aziraphale’s fingers, almost slurping it in, pausing to chew only a few times before swallowing.

As he ate, Zerachiel made an entirely new sound. A deep, almost rusty rumbling. It was an odd sound – almost unnatural – and yet it made the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth twitch up in a smile.

“Good. Now I suppose…” He started to retract his hand, but a lightning-quick paw landed on his wrist. No claws this time, just soft toes, gentle but insistent. Zerachiel leaned in for another sniff, then his bright pink tongue raked along Aziraphale’s thumb, searching for any trace of grease.

It was strange. The tongue wasn’t soft at all, and yet it felt almost pleasant. The rumbling noise grew louder as the kitten licked, sniffed, and licked again.

And then two sharp fangs bit into Aziraphale’s thumb.

“Ow!” He jerked back his hand, though mostly from surprise. The kitten couldn’t have hurt him even if it wanted to. “Why would you do that? Ungrateful beast!”

_EEEEEOOOOOW!_

The paws tapped at his leg again.

“Fine! If it will…assuage your bloodlust, _here.”_ Aziraphale tore several pieces of goose off the bones and dropped them on the floor. The kitten ran over and began devouring them, the deep rumble now louder than ever. “And don’t think I’m going to make a habit of this. As I said, you have a _job.”_

\--

_EEEOOOW! EEEEEOOOOOW! EEEEEEEOOOOOOW!_

The worst part was how unvaried the noise was, just a single caterwauling cry repeated, exactly the same, again and again. Sometimes it stopped if Aziraphale gave in to Zerachiel’s demands; more often he couldn’t work out what the horrid creature even wanted.

He followed Aziraphale around the shop, darting at his feet, twining around his ankles, pouncing on his shoes. Sometimes he would sink to the floor, under a table or next to a bookcase, crouched and alert, pupils wide before suddenly dashing across the rug in a few skittering jumps.

And always, always, the unceasing meows.

“For the last time,” Aziraphale dropped the books he’d been carrying onto a table and turned to the yowling kitten. “You have a job to do. As do I! And this ceaseless yammering is – is _undignified._ You must learn to behave as a proper cat or –”

_EEEOOOOW! EEEEOOOOOW!_

“How would you even know what a proper cat acts like?”

Relief washed over him, as it never had before, even in that disastrous affair in Paris a few years ago. “Crowley!” Aziraphale spun, not even trying to keep his smile in check. “Please, my dear fellow, _please_ tell me you’ve come to help.”

“I seem to recall saying you were on your own.” But behind the black lenses, his eyebrows went up.

It took Aziraphale a moment to realize what had changed. The constant meowing had finally stopped. Zerachiel crouched at his feet, staring directly at Crowley. His tail lashed once, then went still.

“Oh, thank the lord,” Aziraphale said. “Whatever you’ve done, keep doing it. I haven’t had a moment’s peace in two days.”

“I’m not doing anything. I just don’t think it likes me.” Crowley took a few steps forward, and Zerachiel crouched even lower onto the carpet. “See? It can probably sense my demonic nature.”

 _“He,_ Crowley, Zerachiel is a _he.”_

The demon tossed his head, but didn’t contradict. “Well, I still say that _Zera_ is a pain and a nuisance.”

“Oh, don’t you start with that,” Aziraphale cut in sternly. “You know how I feel about _nicknames_ and _diminutives._ His name is Zerachiel, an eminently suitable name for a feline of his stature. I’m sure you can manage it.”

“Aziraphale. You have a disobedient cat named _God’s Command._ Do I need to explain the concept of irony again?”

He huffed a sigh. “No, I understood it the first seven times. And I’m sure – once he is, er, fully trained, it will be it will be completely appropriate.”

“If you say so.” Crowley frowned at the kitten. “And how, exactly, is the training regimen coming?”

Aziraphale looked down. The kitten didn’t even acknowledge him, eyes still locked on Crowley. He supposed a brush of his toe might break the spell, but then that incessant meowing would start all over again…

“I don’t know what to do.” He confessed, wringing his hands. “I can’t understand what he wants or why he doesn’t act like he should.”

Rolling his head, Crowley crossed to the sofa and flung himself down. “And we’re back to, how would you even know how a cat should act? I don’t know what they do around you, but with me it’s generally a lot of lurking, hissing, growling.” He waved a hand. “Looks like he’s got one of them down already.”

Zerachiel stretched one paw forward, elongating himself, without actually budging from his spot.

“I suppose…Oh, I don’t know.” Aziraphale dropped into his favorite armchair. “I thought he would…head off to the attic, chase rodents, then reappear to take naps on the windowsill. Isn’t that what cats do? Instead he follows me around, demanding my attention every moment of the day. And he begs for food instead of hunting his own, I’m sure cats aren’t meant to do that!”

Crowley scratched at his cheek, where he was apparently attempting to grow some sort of side-whiskers. They must be coming into fashion, Aziraphale had seen them on several customers the past few years. “And I suppose you do feed him?”

“Only way to get a bit of quiet.” He tugged at his sleeves, then confessed, “Oh, I know if I stopped, he’d probably take up hunting out of self-preservation but…well…it seems unfair to _starve_ the poor fellow just because he isn’t doing what I want. Perhaps he hasn’t learned how to hunt yet?”

“I thought they just sort of knew.” Crowley turned back to the carpet. “Well. Looks like he knows _something_ at least.”

Aziraphale twisted around, but there was no sign of the little white cat. “Good. He must have… overheard us talking, and finally decided to make himself useful.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps he’s just found a better place to plot our undoing from.”

“Now I think that’s taking things a little far,” Aziraphale admonished, rising from his seat. “Why don’t I fetch a bottle of wine and you can tell me what brought you here today. Unless it was only to cast aspersions on my employee.”

“Not _just_ that,” Crowley grumbled as Aziraphale headed to the back room. “There’s some talk of sending a few more agents up in the coming months. I don’t know what they’re planning, but you’ll want to watch your back.”

“Always, dear fellow,” he called, selecting a bottle of red. “Though if it’s serious enough, I _will_ have to alert my superiors.”

“I’ll tell you what I know,” Crowley promised.

As Aziraphale crossed back to the main shop, he noticed a pair of blue eyes glittering from below the gas stove. For once, Zerachiel didn’t make a sound.

\--

The next day, the kitten worked out how to jump onto a table all on his own.

Aziraphale didn’t actually _see_ it happen, just heard a thud, and turned around to find Zerachiel had once again managed to get where he shouldn’t be, paws leaning against a stack of books as tall as he was. The top few books were already starting to slide forward under the weight.

“No!” Aziraphale snapped, racing across the floor. “Don’t –”

A clatter, and the complete works of Madame de La Fayette were now in a heap on the floor. Zerachiel sniffed at the newly freed space, and went to investigate the angel figurines. Aziraphale had spent months collecting them, and was quite proud of the array. He was sure Zerachiel could sense that somehow, and naturally disapproved.

“This is quite enough of that!” Aziraphale clapped his hands sharply.

The cat didn’t turn, didn’t hesitate, didn’t twitch so much as a whisker. One little white paw reached out and tapped the figurine, immediately pulling back as if scalded.

Aziraphale picked up two books and, with a mental apology to the authors, banged them together as hard as he could.

But still, Zerachiel ignored him, tapping the figurine again, then nudging gently at its base. Putting the books back down, Aziraphale crossed the room as quickly as he could while the ceramic cherub moved inexorably closer to the edge of the table.

“Stop. Stop!” He broke into a run and threw himself onto the floor, barely managing to catch the little figurine as it tumbled end over end. He sighed with relief.

A pair of blue eyes peered down from above, and finally acknowledged his existence.

_EEEEOOOOOOW! EEEEOOOOOOW!_

Trying to bite down annoyance, Aziraphale put the figurine back in its spot and picked up Zerachiel. “You need to stay on the floor, where you _belong.”_

Almost as soon as the little paws touched the carpet, the claws came out, kneading and pulling fibers, practically lifting the entire thing with impossible strength.

“No, that’s not what I meant!” Aziraphale waved a hand, not certain what to do to discourage the cat. Immediately, Zerachiel dashed off, back claws ripping through the rugs, and vanished around a bookcase.

Well. That was something. Last time the cat had been gone for hours, when he hid from Crowley. Perhaps Aziraphale could have a moment to think now. He carefully picked up the fallen books, checking each one for damage and bent pages. It seemed there would be no great loss this time. In any case, these were all _new_ editions rather than the more delicate older works.

He placed them back on the table, a not-quite-straight stack. Crowley liked to complain that he kept the place a mess, but there was an _order_ to the chaos, a carefully balanced line. Not so restrictive as to suffocate, not so relaxed as to cause confusion. It was, Aziraphale felt, where he had the most control.

Still, a bit of rearrangement might be a good idea. Put the more delicate objects out of reach. He selected a few ceramic and glass figurines and carried them towards a bookcase. Surely a high shelf, six feet or so off the ground, would be enough to keep them from Zerachiel’s ministrations.

He hadn’t gone four steps before a white streak leapt from behind a nearby bookcase, tackling his shoe with four sets of claws and a mouth full of teeth, tail lashing furiously.

“What on _Earth_ do you think you’re doing?”

The kitten tilted back his head. _EEEEOOOOOOW!_

\--

Zerachiel had been on staff for nearly an entire week, and he had yet to catch a single rat.

He had, however, knocked over a jar of ink, scratched at the rugs, scratched at the bookcases, stolen Aziraphale’s favorite chair, gotten sick in the middle of the floor, knocked over another jar of ink, yowled and begged for food every few hours, and defeated his own tail in single combat. He was now savoring his victory by sleeping curled up atop the very book Aziraphale wanted to read.

“Now, really, this is getting out of hand,” Aziraphale said sternly. “It's the middle of the afternoon! I did not hire you to sleep on the job.” Zerachiel didn’t so much as flick an ear.

Aziraphale settled into his chair, glaring at the kitten napping on his desk. “I don’t run an especially strict operation here, but there are rules and you need to obey them. That means keeping off my furniture, it means acting _civil_ during opening hours instead of making a racket and a mess, it means not destroying my carpets and – most importantly – it means staying off my books!”

Tiny white paws kneaded at the air, but nothing else moved apart from the rise and fall of breath.

Crossing his arms with a huff, Aziraphale considered the problem. Not the book – he supposed he could just find another copy of _Candide,_ it was not as if he had a shortage – but the cat himself.

It had seemed a delightful idea at the time. There had always been cats lounging about the libraries of Alexandria and Pergamum, quiet and dignified, sleeping in beams of sunlight, occasionally brushing the legs of scholars as they passed from one gallery to the next.

They’d never approached Aziraphale. At best, they’d fled the room as soon as he walked in, tails low to the ground. Many more had hissed their displeasure, and the most intelligent had tried to warn humans of the strange being in their midst. But he’d watched them from afar, the peaceful coexistence they’d had with the other scholars. Some touch of humanity denied to him.

It had occurred to him, one night as he padded around the empty shop, that a kitten might be different. Raised around an ethereal being, it might develop some sort of tolerance. He’d started putting out inquiries the very next day, made arrangements with Josiah Martin within a week, and picked out the kitten the moment it was weaned. As always, he had jumped into the idea before he had a chance to think it through.

Now he had a loudmouthed, chaotic creature who complained more than Crowley ever did. Constantly underfoot, constantly _demanding._

Aziraphale didn’t know what to do.

Zerachiel shifted, rolling onto his back with a little _brrrr,_ one paw rising up to hook around his face. His belly fur fluffed outward like downy feathers.

He seemed so completely different now, at peace, at rest. Completely relaxed. Aziraphale had seen him sleeping before – usually during what he had come to think of as _work hours,_ though he would concede that cats kept their own time – but never yet had he had the courage to sit close like this.

Slowly, almost as if compelled by some outside force, Aziraphale watched his fingers drift towards the kitten. It should be safe. Zerachiel always ignored him when he was in this relaxed state.

As softly as he could, he let his fingers land on that fur, stroking across the ribs –

Instantly, Zerachiel jerked awake. _EEEOOOOW,_ he squeaked, loudly as ever. _EEEOOOOOW!_ And tiny needle claws grabbed at Aziraphale’s had as the little cat twisted and squirmed. _EEEEEOOOOOW!_

“Why?” Aziraphale asked, jerking his hand free. “Why do you shout at me? Why do you attack me? I don’t know what else you want! I give you everything you demand, I let you have the run of the place and yet –”

 _EEEOOOOOW! EEEEEOOOOW!_ Zerachiel pounced off the book, swatting at Aziraphale’s hand. _EEEOOOOW!_

Leaping to his feet, Aziraphale retreated to the far side of the bookshop, longing for that moment of peace he had so foolishly broken. With a tell-tale _thump,_ Zerachiel half-fell, half-jumped off the table, then raced after him, incessant cries filling the air. _EEEEOOOOW! EEEOOOOOW!_

It was too much.

\--

 _EEEOOOOOOW! EEEEEOOOOW! EEEEOOOOOOW!_ The yowling from the basket was the worst Aziraphale had heard yet, almost continuous. It seemed impossible the creature could even _breathe_ around that noise. Other pedestrians looked askance at him, probably wondering if he had a baby trapped inside. Occasionally, a paw would try to escape, grasping at the tie that held the lid shut, then vanish back inside.

When he finally reached the Martins’ townhouse, he was almost tempted to drop the basket and flee. But he really should see this thing through properly.

The maid let him inside, giving the basket a glare of her own before running off to find the man of the house. _EEEEOOOOW! EEEEEEOOOOOOW! EEEEEEOOOOW!_

“Please, just please, stop, I’m begging you, just one moment –”

_EEEEOOOOW! EEEEOOOOOOW! EEEEEOOOOOW!_

“Mr. Fell? What brings you here today?” Josiah Martin appeared from his study, book in hand. He was a bit of a reader, as they’d learned chatting in line at the bakery a few times. He was Aziraphale’s favorite kind of customer: the sort that always said he’d stop by, but never actually did. “And what is that infernal racket?”

At the angry question, Aziraphale felt a knot of worry untie in his stomach. If even this experienced pet owner thought the cries were wrong, that must mean something was wrong with the _cat._ Not with him.

“That’s exactly the trouble,” Aziraphale began, pitching his voice louder to be heard over the wailing. “This cat you gave me won’t stop shouting all the time! And it constantly attacks me!”

“They do that sometimes,” Martin chuckled. “I did warn you he might be energetic this young. But that cry is certainly a bit beyond. Let’s have a look.” He knelt down by the basket, unhooking the string. When he lifted the lid, the cat immediately fell silent. A pair of blue eyes shone out, and a moment later the white head and sharp ears emerged.

The cat turned, surveying the room, and spotted Aziraphale. _EEEEOOOOOW! EEEEEEEOOOOOOW!_

“You see? Not a moment of peace, not for days.”

“His eyes are still blue,” Martin commented, standing up.

“Er, yes?” Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to make of the nonsequitor. “I thought they were quite striking…”

“This is my fault, I should have waited a few more days before giving any away. They’re all born with blue eyes, you see, but they should have changed by now.”

“So there _is_ something wrong with this cat?” He expected to feel relief, but looking into that pinched, yowling face, he felt something else entirely. “I suppose that explains…”

“It happened with the last litter, too,” Martin explained. “White cat with blue eyes.” When Aziraphale frowned in confusion, Martin clarified: “He’s deaf. It’s almost a guarantee with this color.”

“Deaf? No, that’s impossible. He’s the noisiest creature I’ve ever met!”

Martin shrugged. “I’m not sure why they do that. Probably can’t hear their own racket. I do apologize for giving you a defective cat. I’d offer you a replacement, but all the others have already been taken. And we’re going to try and keep a closer eye on Bella, we don’t want another litter any time soon.”

“Ah.” The kitten finally managed to struggle out of the basket. He padded over to Aziraphale and reached up, digging claws into the trouser leg. _EEEEOOOOW! EEEOOOOOW!_

“Here,” Martin leaned over and pinched the kitten by the scruff of the neck, fingers tugging at the skin around the ribbon. He stopped crying, but struggled, back legs kicking. “I’ll have my man take care of it.”

“Your, er, your man knows how to deal with…?”

“Drowning, usually,” Martin explained. “Some people prefer poison, but if you get the dose wrong, they can be sick for days.”

Aziraphale’s jaw worked for a few seconds, but words entirely escaped him. “I…I beg your… _drowning?_ Poison? Why? Why would you –”

“It’s a mercy, really,” Martin said, a little slowly, as if talking to a fool. “Cats like this won’t survive long on the street, and it would be miserable the whole time.” He spotted his maid passing by in another room and waved her over. “Again, my apologies. My cousin up in Haringey has several cats, perhaps one of them…”

Aziraphale had stopped listening, eyes stuck to the little white body being passed from one hand to the next. The wide, staring blue eyes. The tartan ribbon around its neck.

“Pardon me,” he interrupted, stepping forward, scooping Zerachiel into his hands and pressing the squirming kitten to his chest. “I most certainly did not come here to ask you to – to – to – I assure you I have _no need_ of another cat.” Already Zerachiel’s paws were tangled in Aziraphale’s cravat, his fangs worrying into the fabric. “Now I understand what the – what the difficulty was, I’m sure I can, er, I shall deal with this in my own way.” He began backing towards the door as quickly as he could. “Thank you for your time and good day.”

“But, surely, Mr. Fell –”

“I said good day!” He fumbled with the latch, not waiting for the maid to get the door for him, and stumbled back out into the sunlight.

Aziraphale took several deep breaths, trying to still his heart. There was really no need for it to race quite like that. He carefully extracted Zerachiel from his cravat – the kitten had really managed to get himself in a twist – and held him up to eye level.

“Well, my good fellow, I suppose that was a bit distressful. But we should return to work –”

One white paw with pink pads patted Aziraphale’s cheek, claws retracted. Then Zerachiel leaned in and nipped him on the nose.

“Oh, don’t start again!” Aziraphale held the cat at arm’s length. “Really, I just…” But there was no point in berating a cat that couldn’t hear him, was there?

Could it be true? It sounded more like a superstition of some sort. What could a cat’s color possibly have to do with its hearing?

Still, as an angel, he could check. It wasn’t easy to hold the cat at a distance like this, but he managed to get one hand pressed against an ear, and focused.

His mind’s eye traced down the ear canal, to the complicated mechanism of the inner ear. For a moment he panicked, not sure what he was even looking for, but yes, there – a whole grouping of cells, which should have been covered with tiny hairs to conduct sound, instead dead and degenerating. He probed at them with his healing, but it was beyond him. Had this been the result of an infection, he should have been able to clear it right up. But this was simply who the cat was, and it would take a miracle far beyond a bit of healing to change that.

Zerachiel had never heard a sound in his life, and he never would.

Aziraphale blinked his way back to the macroscopic world, blinked eyes that seemed strangely wet. Already the kitten was squirming…

No, not squirming. Zerachiel was turning his head under Aziraphale’s hand, pressing his face into the palm, rubbing his nose against the thumb.

Cautiously, Aziraphale held his thumb in front of Zerachiel’s face. The kitten leaned forward, pushing against it, scraping his whiskers so hard into the base of the thumb that his lips parted.

And he started rumbling again, deep and rusty and content, as he butted his face against Aziraphale’s hand again and again.

“Well. I…Yes, as I was saying. Let us head home.”

Aziraphale had left his basket, but he had no interest in speaking to that dreadful man again. He carefully deposited Zerachiel in his coat pocket. The kitten wriggled about for a moment, then seemed to find a comfortable position. Certainly, his rumbling reached new heights.

As he walked, the weight and warmth of the kitten tapped against his hip again and again. Once more, he felt that strange compulsion, that need for something that took over his better judgement. He gently lowered his hand into the pocket, as an experiment, fingers curled, ready to retract. His knuckles found the soft space between those pointed ears, little short hairs almost silky soft.

“ _Prrrrrb,”_ Zerachiel responded, tipping his head back against the fingers.

It was only when he was nearly back to the shop that Aziraphale realized: Zerachiel hadn’t yowled or bitten once the entire walk.

\--

Zerachiel stalked across the desk again, tail arched above him, batting at a pen with his paw, preparing to knock it – and probably a whole pile of papers – onto the floor.

Aziraphale had to bite back his anger as he saw the letter he’d been writing to Crowley wrinkle and smudge under those tiny feet. _Don’t shout at him,_ he reminded himself. _He can’t hear you. Shouting won’t do you a bit of good._

But if that wasn’t an option what could he do?

The pen clattered to the ground, spattering two drops of black ink into the carpet that Aziraphale would have to miracle clean _again._ Zerachiel watched it, one paw raised, then glanced to the side at the ink jar, and the bright reflections of the day’s last light.

“Oh, no, not again.” He needed a distraction, and Aziraphale was not always good at thinking on his toes. That’s what he kept Crowley around for.

Even as he saw the kitten’s crouch shift towards the glass jar, Aziraphale let his wings burst free.

The reaction was instantaneous.

 _EEEEOOOOOW!_ His entire body seemed to tense up, but whether to pounce or to flee was unclear.

“Now, my good fellow, this is nothing to be afraid of,” Aziraphale said soothingly, though he didn’t think it would make any difference. His fingers quickly combed through his feathers, seeking out one that was loose. “I’m just looking for – ah!” A long secondary feather pulled free. He tucked his wings back into the ether and offered the feather, pinching the base between thumb and forefinger. “There. This won’t spoil my carpet, will it?”

Zerachiel studied the feather, brushed his lip across it, then nibbled the end.

“Yes, why don’t you, er…” He waved the feather around. Zerachiel followed it, pupils wide, reaching with one claw-tipped paw. “Yes, let’s see.” He released the feather, let it flutter to the ground.

Zerachiel watched it fall, then jumped down to investigate, cautiously approaching the unfamiliar object. He patted it, then tried to scoop it up. The feather balanced on his paw for a breath, before toppling off and fluttering in a stray breeze.

All at once, with a burst of speed Aziraphale had not expected, Zerachiel was batting the feather across the floor, chasing it, tackling it, tearing at it with teeth and back claws. In a matter of seconds, he had vanished into some corner of the shop, though the thuds of a small body hitting the bookcases and the scramble of paws across hardwood could still be heard on occasion.

“That seems to have taken care of that.” Aziraphale straightened his waistcoat. “Time for dinner, I suppose.”

He had just settled down at his table, courses spread out before him, when Zerachiel trotted in and deposited half a feather – the rachis had been chewed straight through – right next to Aziraphale’s feet.

_EEEEOOOOOW!_

“I see. Yes, you did kill your prey quite thoroughly. Very well done.” He picked up a small dish filled with meat sliced small enough for the tiny mouth. “It’s pork tonight. I hope you’re not going to be picky about that.”

 _EEEEOOOOW!_ Zerachiel rubbed his head against Azirapahle’s calf, twining around between his legs to press his whole body against it. _EEEEOOOOOW!_

“Well. Yes. Alright then.” As soon as the dish touched the floor, Zerachiel’s face was in it, lapping at the gravy, worrying at pieces of meat.

Aziraphale hesitated. His hand was still on the dish, right next to the tiny warm body. As he lifted it, he let his fingers hover just above the kitten’s spine, a gentle brush across the soft fur.

 _“Prrrrrrb!”_ Zerachiel’s back arched, rising up to meet the hand, pressing against it so Aziraphale could feel the muscles, the bones, the delicate ribs working around both lungs and stomach. The fur was softer than his own feathers, just long enough to half-bury his fingers as they traced through, finally meeting the tail that lashed around, as if trying to hold on to Azirpahale’s hand.

Through all this, Zerachiel’s mouth never ceased at its task, devouring the bowl of food with a happy rumble.

“Ahem.” Aziraphale lifted his hand, still marveling at the warmth that seemed to have soaked into his fingers. An unexpected smile rose to his lips. “Bon appetite, my good fellow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Approximately 2% of cats are born all-white with blue eyes; of these, 60-80% are congenitally deaf. Interestingly, white cats with one blue eye and one other-colored eye are often only deaf on the blue-eyed side. It is believed there is a genetic link between the coloration (which is not albinism, and controlled by a different gene) and the development of certain cells in the inner ear. Deaf cats are capable of living long, healthy lives with a little accommodation to help them feel safe, but should be kept indoors as they cannot hear the approach of predators or cars. Some deaf cats are also mute, while others shout almost constantly - their meows are significantly louder and deeper than the average cat's.
> 
> Kittens should not really be adopted before 8 weeks, nor should they be fed entirely on solid food at that age. Pre-modern cat owners would generally expect cats to feed themselves, apart from occasional treats - they were seen as working animals (like oxen or farm dogs), not as pets, although by 1800 this was beginning to change a bit (particularly for young girls and kittens).
> 
> Due to their rapid breeding rate, cat overpopulation can be a serious issue. Additionally, cats who are not socialized among humans in the first few months of life may never adapt to domesticated life. In many modern cities, stray cats are caught, spayed/neutered, and released in order to control the population and keep shelters from becoming overcrowded with cats that can't cope with indoor living. Historically, however, the only available solution was to kill unwanted kittens, usually by drowning.
> 
> Despite what Aziraphale thinks, swatting, nipping, pouncing, and knocking over everything that moves are not a sign of resentment, but kitten-typical behaviors that should not be punished. Redirecting the kitten (as he does in the end) is the best solution.  
> \--  
> Thank you all for reading! I hope you liked this little foray into the world of cats. Should I write more chapters? I have many thoughts about the future of little Zerachiel, and really Aziraphale has only begun to experience the wonders of cat ownership...


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